


Alma e Coração (Heart and Soul)

by LaughableLament



Series: Comment Ficlets [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempt at Humor, Barebacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Comment Fic, Crack, It is now..., M/M, Olympic Medal Kink, Possibly Ridiculous, Top Sam, is that a thing?, sauna sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where there's an Olympics for hunters. Sam and Dean go for the gold. Among other things...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alma e Coração (Heart and Soul)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zubeneschamali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zubeneschamali/gifts).



> Written for [this prompt](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/550228.html?thread=17354324#t17354324) at the 2016 Summer Olympics comment meme.

The big Russian’s roundhouse whizzes past Dean’s nose and he jerks back. Goes low, and unloads a jab to the guy’s ribs.

“Left left left!”

Sam’s voice, and Dean spins just in time to sidestep a charge from the little Russian. Sticks out a foot and the guy goes sprawling, out of the ring and out of the match. Just enough time for a smirk before Dean zeroes back in on Boris Bruiserkov or whatever.

Circle. Sam comes into view and Dean seethes. Cut cheek, split lip. Nursing his side and _That rib better not be cracked or there’s gonna be a rematch in the parking lot later._

Boris lunges, tries to grapple. Dean drops to his butt and the big guy’s momentum carries him over the top. Sam closes, kicks him firm behind the knee and Boris goes down. Dean wrenches an arm behind his back.

“You yield?”

Dean doesn’t need to speak Russian to know he’s been cussed. Twists Boris into a sleeper hold and the big guy thrashes, tries to kick free until Sam puts a fist in his solar plexus.

“ _Ustupayu_ ,” comes out in a wheeze.

Whistles screech. Sam drops to his knees, chest heaving. Dean turns the Russian loose and scrambles for him.

“Hey. Hey, you all right?” He runs hands up and down his brother’s sides, watches Sam’s face for a clue to the damage. Barely hears the cheering crowd, or the ringside judge declaring them gold medal winners in men’s pairs bareknuckle combat.

Dean hauls Sam off the floor and winces at his brother’s groan. Shoots a withering look at the smaller Russian. Wiry fucker, dirty fighter. Quick too, which was why they’d sicced Sam on him in the first place. _Yeah, there’s gonna be a rematch either way, you son of a bitch_.

Some little ninety-pound medic tries to look underneath Sam’s shirt and Dean damn near bites his head off. Barely enough time to wash the blood off their faces before they climb the podium. Dean keeps a steadying hand on his brother. Pointedly ignores his own throbbing jaw and swollen eye.

Pre-recorded orchestra kicks in and Sam goes stiff beside him. He dares a look. Sam’s biting his lip, shoulders hitch and Dean should’ve figured the kid’d get choked up.

Whole trip had been Sammy’s thing, from the jump. Way Dean saw it, saving lives was the actual gig. Not, prancing around in some douche sponsor’s logo and getting beat up for the cameras. Sam had his number though. One credible threat about no more blowies, ever, and Dean packed his duffel. Least the Olympic Trials hadn’t drawn as much blood as the Hellgate ones.

Sam looks over, dewy smile and okay, maybe he’s kind of swallowing around a frog in his throat, but come on. Not even a Cylon could look at Sam looking like that and not feel anything. _Suck it up, Winchester._ Eyes on the Stars and Stripes. _Stow your crap._

They meet the press.

“It’s such an honor just to compete, to represent our country,” Sam’s saying, butterfly bandages stark on his flushed cheek.

Such a diplomat.

“In our line of work, you almost never get recognized, you know?” He holds up his medal. “So we’re dedicating these to all the hunters out there who are saving lives right now while we’re here in your cushy studio.” He flashes those dimples and the vapid morning show host goes gooey-eyed.

Dean fidgets. _How many friggin interviews can these douchebags want?_

“And what about you, Dean? What does a Hunters’ Olympics gold medal mean to you?”

“I got a brand new pickup line?”

“Dean!” Sam stomps on his foot.

He stifles a swear. “Nah, I’m just kiddin,” he lies. “Everything he said.”

*

Dean peels Sam’s complimentary Ralph Lauren track jacket off his shoulders. Wonders what they can get for it on eBay. _Seriously, whoever came up with these sponsorship deals needs their ass beat._ Give Dean Carhartt and Timberland, any day.

Sam still favors that left side and Dean’s teeth clench when he lifts Sam’s shirt, gets a look at the perfectly fist-sized bruise blooming there.

“That motherfucker,” Dean hisses.

“Dean, it’s fine.”

“My ass it’s fine. How’d he land a shot this hard? I swear to God if he had a roll of nickels in his—”

Sam kisses him quiet. _Speakin of fightin dirty…_ Dean tastes blood, no way to know whose. Lips sting and jaws ache. Sam’s tongue worms between his teeth, hands clutch at his waist. They break apart and Dean starts to pull his medal from his neck.

“Wait,” Sam says, low. “Leave it on.”

Dean shakes his head but stuffs the gold disk down his shirt. Smirks. Sam grabs the hem and strips him to the waist. Long fingers trail from the back of his neck, down the ribbon to the center of his chest. Sam’s lips part, eyes flutter and breathing goes shallow.

“This really gets you off, huh?” Sam looking at him like that gives him ideas…

Sam’s got his own ideas though. Drags Dean by his medal to the sauna.

Up against the tiles, adrenaline comedown, smell of Sam’s sweat and Dean’s all lizard brain. Heat and steam and his brother’s body. Towels tumble and skin slicks. Dean wraps a leg around, pulls Sam closer, buries his tongue in Sam’s mouth. Teeth and medals bang off each other and Sam grinds, hard against him. Head falls back and almost, almost…

Sam folds to his knees, barely gets Dean’s dick wet before he unloads. Sam bobs, sucks and swallows and props Dean up, hands at his hips. Moans like he’s getting a gourmet dinner and Dean fights, reflex thrusts and he’s gonna have another set of bruises, way Sam’s digging his fingers in.

Next thing he knows Sam’s draped behind him, bent over a smooth pine bench. Dean’s gold medal clanks in front of him. Sam’s medal scrapes his back. Fingers tease his hole, slick, and _Where did you hide that lube, you sneaky fucker?_ Dean arches and opens, hot stretch and he squirms, Sam sinks deeper. Other hand snakes around, plays with Dean’s nipples and teases his cock. Dean jerks. Grits his teeth, too much.

“Sammy,” half a grunt. “You gotta get this done, man.”

Sam obliges. Adds his ring finger and Dean lets out a sound he’ll deny to his dying day. Nothing else left but his brother’s name _._ Sweat drips off his nose, trails down his thighs. Sam works him over, teases his prostate until he’s at least half-mast again. Sam’s hand disappears and Dean twitches. Then Sam’s cock, driving in him. Dean’s vision goes to spots.

Sam fucks like a 502, all raw power and brutal strokes. Even sounds like a motor, growls in Dean’s shoulder, teases with teeth. Dean’s hips roll. Muscles spasm and knuckles pale. Sam slip-slides around him, in him. Rhythm falters. Sam winds a hand in Dean’s ribbon and slams home, finally, yells and comes. Dean rides it out, squeezes and milks Sam’s cock until Sam collapses on him, pins him to the pine.

Ain’t so easy breathing underneath a damned gorilla. Sam’s medal digs at Dean’s back and his own pokes his chest. Sam mutters something. Sappy, Dean bets. Whole friggin Olympics thing is turning Sam into his sister.

“You gonna get offa me anytime soon?” comes out kind of garbled, what with the good side of Dean’s face smashed in a bench.

Sam shakes, laughing at him. _Asshole._

“Yeah, okay.” Sam pushes up, unsteady but he hauls Dean behind him. Side by side they sprawl and catch their breath. Now the aches and pains come back. Dean’s face throbs and Sam touches his bruised ribs gingerly.

“We oughta get that checked, I guess,” Dean says. But he’s thinking more like _I oughta skin those Commie pricks._

“You do it?” Sam asks. “I don’t wanna get benched before roadhouse pentathlon.”

“Excellent point.” Dean grips Sam’s shoulder. “Come on, champ, let’s hit the showers. I’ll swipe a first aid kit and patch you up after.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agrees.

 _A good plan_ , Dean thinks. And then he pulls Sam back on top of him, face to face, and kisses him stupid. Way Dean sees it, Winchesters and plans go together like hunters and the fucking Olympics.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Rio's official theme song, which you can find [here on YouTube](https://youtu.be/eFGCIkUcGtM). (I really dig it. ^_^)
> 
> Oh! And I had to guess at how the Russian would say, "Yield." If I got it wrong, please let me know? :)


End file.
